Friday, April 19, 2013

I love sardines. I
grew up eating sardines, particularly the tinned variety, and loved them. "Sardines on Toast" was a family
favourite. The tins didn't have a
ring-pull like they do now; they had a key and when you wound the key, the
metal lid gradually wrapped around itself to open the can and reveal those
little silver fish. We'd put them in a
shallow china bowl, mash them up with Heinz Salad Cream, and spread them on
toast which we'd pop back under the oven grill and toast until bubbling. I still eat sardines on toast now though I
use mayo if I can't find Salad Cream at the store, and add a teaspoonful of
sweet relish to spice it up. I even introduced
my American family to the joys of the dish and they enjoy them to this day!

It's a very good thing I love sardines because there were
times when I lived in Tripoli
back in the mid-80s that sardines were all we could find to eat. In early letters from Libya, I tell
my family and friends:

"There is nothing to buy here except food, and there is
very little food to buy. Sardines are
usually available in tins (tuna-fish too, I'm told, though I haven't seen any
yet). We can't have sardines on toast
though because while we can buy bread, we can't make toast as there are no such
things as toasters or grills in Tripoli."

A few months later, I share that we (the secretaries) heard a
rumor that a little shop on the other side of town had large quantities of sardines
so we arranged for Musbah, the AGIP company driver, to take us there after
work. The shopkeeper did indeed have
sardines...cases of them just arrived from Russia. Most cases had already gone but there were a
couple left. However, the Libyan shopkeeper
tried to explain with gestures that these were rotten sardines and only fit for
animals. We bought them anyway. But once opened, we realized he was
right. There was something peculiar
about the color and smell. I tried them
out on my cat but even he, a scruffy alley cat of questionable parentage with no palate that ate almost anything,
wouldn't touch them. We had to throw
them away.

By the end of my time in north Africa, I'd come to loathe
them. In one letter, I say, "If I
ever see another sardine, I shall spit in its eye." And in another, "If I ever utter the
word 'sardine' out loud in a public place, you must shoot me, right there and
then."

So here I am in Austin, Texas, playing Mrs. Clackett in
Austin Playhouse's production of NOISES OFF in which almost my every other word
is "sardine" -- "I've got a nice plate of sardines to put my
feet up with," and "Now I've lost the sardines..." and
"Sardines here, sardines there."
I stuff sardines down the front of my fellow actress's dress, she stuffs
them down mine. I have them thrown in my
hair, my colleagues slip up on piles of them. Six
plates of sardines make their way around the stage...or is it seven?!

Everything comes full circle, doesn't it? I loved sardines, I hated them, I love them
again. And now I get to play with them for
all the world to see. Goodness, is that the time? If you'll excuse
me, I'm going to run lines with a nice cup of tea and a pre-rehearsal bite to
eat. As Mrs. Clackett would say,
"Sardines, sardines...can't put your feet up on an empty stomach, can
you?"

NOISES OFF opens on Friday 26 April 2013 at Austin Playhouse in our temporary home
at Highland Mall. For details, please go to www.austinplayhouse.com

Monday, April 15, 2013

Six years ago, the morning I heard of my mother's death, I went
walking in my neighborhood to try and calm myself.Her death was sudden; unexpected.I was about a mile from my house when two huge
blue herons flew overhead, landed in a tree above my head, and watched me.Although I live a block from Shoal Creek, I'd
never seen herons in my neighborhood before.I was overwhelmed by the sight of these birds; it brought on the
tears.Oceans of tears.I felt the spirit of my parents in these
birds.I dismissed the fact that my
parents didn't get along -- everyone gets along in the spirit world!After that, whenever I saw a heron, I'd think
of my mother.

It hadn't happened again from that day to this though I've
kept my eyes open for such a recurrence.Until this morning!On that same
walk, walking past that same tree, a huge blue heron flew over my head and
landed right there.It wasn't watching
me directly at first.In fact, it was
having a bit of trouble finding its balance on the branch.I immediately thought of my mother's balance
issues in later life.(As an aside, Mum
and I decided that children "fall down" but older folks "take a
fall."As in, "Poor old thing,
she lost her balance and took a fall.")Well, there was Mum this morning, in heron form, having a bit of trouble
staying upright.At last, she managed
it, turned her head and looked right at me.

The cynics among you will say it's a coincidence but I'm
open to the wonder of synchronicity.I've been thinking about Mum pretty much constantly, about her life and
her part in my life, since her
anniversary last week.I'm quite
prepared to believe that God, the Universe and the Powers-that-be arranged a
little visit on my behalf.I accept good
omens in every shape and form!Blessed,
that's me, blessed!

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

In my mother's honor, here is her own story about leaving
home for the very first time.World
War II put paid to Mum's chances of going to university, at
least temporarily.Desperate to get away
from a difficult and
traumatic family life in the north of England, she took the first chance that came along.

"I joined the Women's Land Army in January 1943 when I was 17
years and 3 months old.

My uniform had arrived in a battered cardboard box.Any kind of paper or cardboard was hard to
come by at that time and everything was hoarded for future use.I had asked to be posted as far away from
home as possible.

I found I was going to Hampshire way down in the South of
England which was pretty far from County
Durham.All traveling arrangements were done by
people who drew the shortest line between two places with no regard for
available transport or the traveler's convenience.Instead of taking the bus from my house to
the Central Station in Newcastle, I was ordered
to take it to Durham to catch the London train from
there.No one told me to change my
travel warrant for a ticket.I thought
it was a ticket.At about six o'clock in the morning on a
freezing January day, my dad took me to the bus with two enormous suitcases,
neither of which I could carry.I don't
actually remember saying goodbye but I do know it was the end of my childhood,
my home life and everything familiar to me.I can't imagine what Dad was feeling as he walked back to what I still
call home.And we never discussed it so
I never found out.That's how it was in England in
those days.

I reached Durham.The railway is on a viaduct high about the
road and I had to walk up there, carrying one case at a time, heave by
heave.I got a rocket from the ticket
man for not changing my travel warrant and when the train came, I lurched on
and found a seat with other Land Army new girls I found there.Now, how do I say this?They were from what were still, at that time,
the slums of Newcastle.I was a delicately nurtured, private
school-educated girl who had never had to do without.I stuck out like a sore thumb.I am surprised I wasn't ignored or laughed to
scorn -- but I think that, even then, I was able to lower my sights and be, to
a certain extend, "one of them."However, let us say that we didn't have much in common.

At King's Cross Station, we all parted and I must say, how I
got from there to Waterloo Station by Underground is a mystery.I remember that my luggage was carried by
various servicemen all the way.According to my ticket, I was supposed to catch the Portsmouth train to Rowland's Castle, quite
the wrong stop according to the farmer's wife who would have had to go miles
out of her way to pick me up if I had actually done that.But Rowland's Castle had been changed to
Petersfield.I little knew then the part
that Petersfield was to play in my life.By this time I had acquired a navy escort who was so worried about my
ability to get to my final destination that he insisted on getting off at
Petersfield with me in spite of being on his way to Portsmouth.I had never been "picked up" in my life.I knew very little about boys except for
people I grew up with.I did not realize
how good all these young servicemen were being to me.Nowadays I think you'd be taking quite a
chance.

At Petersfield it was raining.It was about tea-time and nearly dark."Forlorn" is the word that springs
to mind.After about 20 minutes, a
little car rolled up and it was the farmer's wife and her son, Roy.The sailor was dismissed rather rudely by the
wife and I said thank you and off we went.I think this was the low point.I
was so homesick I nearly wept.The
conversation was stilted; there was little to say.In the tiny hamlet of Chidden, near
Hambledon, where the farm was, I was taken to a cottage where a young mother
with a 4-year-old was living, a refugee from the bombing of Portsmouth.Her husband was in the Royal Air Force.I was billeted with her.After
telling me to be at the cowshed at 6:30 a.m. the farmer's wife left and I went
to my room.I don't remember any
names.The young mother was about
twenty-three, I think.She was very
pleasant and I felt better.I spent most
of the night awake with an alarm clock pressed to my ear.I was surprised at how quickly I learned to
wake at six.

The farm was a small, mixed establishment.The farmer was really old and having had a
heart attack, did nothing.His wife was
much younger and was quite fat -- but strong?My hat!Arms like hams.Always wore a shapeless black dress.She had asked the Land Army for a 30 year-old
experienced milk-hand and she got me.We
were not satisfied with one another.When I arrived at the cowshed it looked like the Nativity scene.Soft paraffin lamps, gently breathing cows,
the smell of hay and dung.This reality
soon changed.They gave me a pail, a
stool and a cow and the said, "Milk it."It had long nails that I soon either cut or
got torn off.Innocent as the day is
long, I was wearing my complete uniform, every scrap of it.I soon tore off a good deal of that as
well.It's hard work, milking.At 9:00 a.m., I returned to the cottage for
breakfast.Then a morning's work preparing
food for the animals, dinner, feeding bullocks in the afternoon, the evening's
milking and at 6:00 p.m., back home in time for supper.And me a city girl.

I
stayed for 3 months. I was a disappointment, I'm afraid; they asked to
have me removed. Well, what could they expect? Talk about throwing
someone in at the deep end. I was sent to a women's hotel in
Peterfield, and there my life began!

Dear Blog Friend

My mum (in England) and I (wherever I happened to be living) used to write each other every week...snail-mail letters, of course. When we both got computers and email became popular, we wrote every day...about everything, from the weather to what our neighbors were doing, from the political situation to popular shows on the telly. When she died, not only did I miss my lovely mum, I missed our regular written conversations; and I lost my daily writing fix. Now I admit the messages were sometimes ridiculously banal but they were often hilarious and always fun to receive. So to start with at least, I'm going to imagine my blog is a note to my mum in the hope that you'll like reading it as much I liked reading her notes to me.